


Feel the Party to My Bones

by ryguy



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29426106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryguy/pseuds/ryguy
Summary: Charlie Kelly, aspiring musical pianist, comes to terms with the sham that is the American dream.
Relationships: Charlie Kelly/Mac McDonald/Dennis Reynolds, Dee Reynolds & Dennis Reynolds
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Feel the Party to My Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “Perfect Places” by Lorde. This was written for the 2020 Always Sunny “WILDCARDS!” zine, which you can find more info about [here](https://iasipzine.carrd.co/)!
> 
> **TW:** animal death mention, eating disorder mention, discussion of mental health issues, recreational drug use, suicide mention, non-graphic mention of body mutilation and gore, vomit mention

**November 2nd**

One thing Charlie hates more than anything is when he’s being told _what_ to do, _when_ to do it, and _how_ to do it. It really doesn't help that he feels like a mutt chained to a fence post, with his scholarship held above his head as a motive to sit around and endure a three-hour-long music theory lecture. He knows he should be kissing the committee's ass for the opportunity to be in this lecture hall alone.

The day his acceptance letter came in, his mother looked at him with that fragile disbelief on her face, that expression of _son, you did it_ , and the world stopped for a moment. She has known for years that Charlie despised those sloppy kisses his grandma used to give him at family gatherings because the lipstick smelled old and his grandma was even older—but she couldn’t help herself and pressed a small peck onto Charlie’s cheek. Her arms wrapped around him in a familiar motherly embrace that was just as tight as it was when he was only five years old and fell on the playground.

Bonnie began sobbing into the crook of his neck.

Charlie never fully grasped what it was that made her so sentimental in the moment. Freshly nineteen and one foot out of adolescence, he thought this was a one of those things that moms did; they cried for their sons.

Something else that he vividly remembers from that night is his buddy, Mac. He had sprinted across the desolate night road barefoot and fell from the Kelly house's porch right into Charlie's arms. This was unprompted, aside from the brief call Charlie gave him confirming that yes, they _are_ going to the same college starting next semester.

Mac was always nice to Bonnie; the dreamy boy next door with the awkward smile and that spontaneous charisma of his. Charlie liked that Mac was so easy to get along with. He was still thinking about it hours later when they were sitting on his bed smoking joints and drinking beers that Mac had sneaked in. Rob Halford’s ear-splitting falsetto rang through the room from their “Sunday Hangouts” mixtape and it felt like the night after Luther had gone to prison a second time and Mac came over to mope and get high.

Things are better now.

Then Mac said something that Charlie wasn’t paying much attention to—he tended to rant plenty when tipsy. And he would have ignored it if it weren’t for the fact that Mac _kissed_ him. It was new and uncharted. He was kissing Charlie so hard that he fell back on the bed and burned a hole in his sheets with the lit joint in his hand.

They never talked about it again. Not in the morning, not a week later while watching wrestling in the basement, and not at the opening convocation at college. It could have been and actually _was_ written off as teenage questioning and experimentation. Not verbally, it was more of a silent agreement. An assumption about the other.

Fast forward to two months into college and Charlie is skipping more seminars than attending. Not to mention, when he is present, his notes make no sense: it starts out strong, with a simple title, taking up two lines, and a date on the margin. Then, proportional to the length of the lecture, the writing gradually translates into drawings and those drawings smudge up the side of Charlie's pinkie and it's _annoying_ ; but what's more annoying, is not knowing a single person in the auditorium. Not a single one. It's just Charlie against the world and maybe personally against Ms. Klinsky's nondescript presentations.

On Tuesdays, the line between the end of music theory and the beginning of theater is a godsent lunch break. _Saved by the bell_ , as one might put it.

Charlie shoves his papers and his single ballpoint pen into his backpack and slings the half-zipped bag over his shoulder. He turns around, only to bump into his chair and knock into the person he's sitting next to. He keeps his head low and shuffles past them. It's like high school, except he's classified as a functioning adult. Personally, he feels like a neurodivergent man with an overprotective mother and a roommate that smells like the men's locker room condensed into a person, is simply not cut out for society just yet.

He decides to stop by the vending machine in the hall for a quick snack. His eyes skim over the selection and land on an appetizing bag of wavy chips. He taps his pockets. Then, pronto, his back pockets.

_Shit._

It's a chilly day on campus, and walking back to the dorms in jeans with holes over the knees just to pick his wallet up isn't exactly an ideal scenario. He clenches his fists at his sides. Grudgingly, he turns around and speedwalks to the nearest payphone with the spare change of fifty cents in his pocket. He dials their dorm’s landline and hopes for the best.

_Pick up, pick up, pick up…_

After four rings, he hears Sarah Michelle Gellar's voice through the speaker. Mac's probably watching _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ without him again. Mac’s voice does break up the tension in his shoulders, though.

"Ayo, what's up?"

"Mac! Okay, thank God you actually picked up, uhm, look, dude," Charlie says, "I may have left my wallet back somewhere around my bed. Could you go get it for me? This is life or death, I just finished Klinsky’s lesson and I’m starving so bad. I swear I'll buy you a pack of thin mints in return or something."

Mac groans. "Fine, deal. But not the dollar store ones, those tasted like toothpaste! Go to the Wawa, the one near Carmen’s place."

"Every thin mint tastes like toothpaste, dude. You're just picky."

"Take that back!"

“I’m gonna buy you a family pack of toothpaste for your birthday. Now bring me my wallet—and a jacket! It’s cold as shit today.”

Mac sighs. “You should start looking for new friends, dude. I’m not gonna choose you over _Buffy_ every time. And if the stupid VCR refuses to record this episode I’m gonna freak out.”

“There are repeats on Thursdays, calm down.”

Charlie can hear the telltale jingle of keys on the other end.

Mac huffs out a breath. “Gonna hang up now. See you in ten. Ciao.”

**November 9th**

It's another pain in the ass Tuesday. On top of that, it’s another cold morning, dipping below comfortable temperatures.

This time, there's two more things to mull over; they cancel each other out if you think of them as strict negatives and positives. For one, Charlie is skipping that terrible music theory class. Although, it’s only because he physically can’t peel himself off the dorm room floor.

He was pulling an all-nighter fueled by nothing but the cheapest alcohol he could bulk buy at the convenience store, and Goldfish crackers that somehow always leave crumbs on his fingers and stick to his sheet music. Hunched over his synth, he was playing melody after melody to appease the composition that had been stuck in his head for the past four days.

He then passed out at dawn, which is just unfortunate.

The carpeted floor is harder than usual on his spine when he blinks his eyes open in the morning. He knows Mac forgot to close the window again because the room feels like a grocery store freezer aisle, making his body jerk akin to that feeling at night right before his brain is about to shut off, when his nerves fire all at once and have him plummet down into the mattress.

He rolls on his side. A blanket twists along with his body, bunching between his thighs. The odd thing is, it's a little too warm, and it smells like Mac's cologne—it’s odd, yes, but not unwelcome. His eyes slip shut and he curls in on himself. He can easily see himself sleeping for another hour, even with the cold air nipping over his skin—dozing off, drifting, as if the ground was sinking and the walls were leaning in.

Maybe he’s just terribly hungover with no ibuprofen in sight..

The second time he wakes up, his face is planted flat on the floor, cheek mushed up against a sheet of paper. He pries his eyelids open and pushes up on his elbow. There's something blurry between his eyes that looks nothing like his nose—it's a sticky note, stuck on his forehead. It tickles as he moves to grab it, the paper crumpling between his fingers as he flips it.

It reads: _"Don't do this to yourself again or I'm gonna have to carry you to bed. This is a treat—"_ Charlie snorts, and squints at the writing. Left-handed people are worse at handwriting than him, a dysgraphic. No, there is definitely an 'h' in there somewhere. _"This is a_ threat." There we go. " _There should be food in the fridge. Consider it payback for that time you let me borrow your Mötley Crüe shirt. No more IOU - your badass roommate, Mac"_

Charlie folds the reminder up and shoves it in his underwear, between the elastic and his hipbone.

He _is_ hungry though, indisputably so—Mac knows him too well. He salvages a pair of sweats and a hoodie from the laundry pile he shares with Mac and he downs another energy drink, before heading for the communal kitchen.

_Two,_ said communal kitchen is tricky to navigate. It's somehow more sizable yet substantially worse than the open kitchen back at his mom's house.

He leans against the counter, eyes on the plate turning in the microwave—on it are two chimichangas, from the Mexican place down the block. He's zoning out; staring ahead, unfocused. His eyes are glued to the spinning plate and the light emanating from the microwave.

And then this guy waltzes in, midday, wearing a woolen sweatshirt with collars poking out, and fitted, but cuffed jeans that put his skinny ankles on display. Charlie sees him from the corner of his eye. He seems to have stopped in the doorway. His neatly groomed eyebrows are drawn up, and he must think Charlie is a mirage or a poltergeist, given how puzzled he looks. His wide-open eyes are narrowed slowly, the look in them curious as he steps closer.

"Uh, hey," he says, and there's a Philly lilt to his voice.

Charlie raises his hand in a non-committal wave. He turns his head to take a better look at him (since a side-eye glance can’t pain the whole picture). His face is chiseled and boyish, with an effeminate touch. His hair is styled with attention to detail, every curl tucked elegantly into place. It’s like looking into a mirror and seeing your polar opposite: Charlie's wild bedhead and the raccoon-like darkness under his eyes scream hot mess—he looks like he's wearing eyeliner on his waterline, and that's giving him too much credit.

The guy continues, and Charlie focuses on his lips as he forms his words.

"How's it going? Haven't seen you around here before."

Charlie gives him a quizzical look. "I'm hiding from classes and binging fast food that was _practically_ given to me for free. I mean, shit, typical Tuesday." There’s a dry laugh as punctuation. "You?"

The microwave dings.

The guy's lips curve into a soft smile at the corners. "Something similar," he mumbles, as he slips his hands in his pockets. "Dennis."

“What?”

Charlie watches himself fidget, pick at the skin beside his nails as he strides over to the microwave, putting the distance back between them.

“Dennis. It’s my name.”

Charlie takes his food out, burning his fingertips on the ceramic. It’s as if the word wants to rush from his mouth, “Charlie,” he says, like his tongue is burning alongside his fingers.

And Dennis, he’s a weird one—he mouths the name silently before uttering it in a way Charlie could hear.

“Charlie, huh.”

Charlie chucks the plate on the kitchen island with a clatter.

Dennis continues, insistent. “As in Charles?”

Charlie grips the countertop's edge and rests his weight on it, knuckles straining. Dennis takes a seat on the other side, elbows reposed on the marble in a similar fashion. Dennis is teasing him—the trust fund snob with his stupid smile is teasing him—or maybe he wants to be humored himself.

Charlie’s jaw clenches, and he has to physically shake the strain from it.

"As in _Charlie_ ," he grits out, correcting him. "You not eatin’?"

Dennis exhales softly, waving the question off with a lax hand. "Just waiting for a friend."

“You’re sitting around in the kitchen, waiting for your friend, and you’re _not_ eating.” Dennis nods. “Got it.” Charlie pushes the plate in front of Dennis. "Take the other one."

Dennis laughs, and his cheeks are tinted the same pink his lips are. It’s not often that a man sitting in a grimy kitchen could be described as pretty, but maybe this is the exception that proves the rule. He props his chin up on a hand, leaning to one side.

"No, no. I was told not to accept things from strangers—and, well, I'm as obedient as they come."

Charlie snorts and sits opposite of him. "Why do I have a hard time believing that?"

Dennis presses his lips into a thin line. He reaches for the chimichanga closest to him and grabs one end between four fingers, holding his pinkie out, like he's waiting for it to grow canines and devour his hand whole. He digs his fingers in and tears off a bite-sized portion. Some of the meat drops back on the plate—it's no more than a fifth that he holds in his hand.

"Ask me something else."

Dennis takes a bite, sinking his teeth in.

"What?"

"Ask me something, anything. I don't like being the one to come up with small talk."

_Prick_ , Charlie thinks, _stuck up prick_. Not the best of first impressions, but it could be worse—it still can be.

"Fine," he says. "Why aren't you in class and shit?"

Dennis rolls his eyes. "I could ask you the same." His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

Charlie frowns, perplexed. "Long story."

Dennis hums, covering his mouth with a hand as he takes another bite. "Yeah." It's more of a statement than a question, and Charlie thinks he's not even listening.

Charlie drums his fingers on the counter.

"Let's do this _Jeopardy_ -style."

That catches Dennis's attention, eyes dark, and pinned on Charlie.

“ _Jeopardy_?”

“Do you not watch TV, man?”

What a bold assumption. To a man, every conversation is a competition, and Dennis prefers to triumph.

“I do, occasionally—or, I used to. I do know what _Jeopardy_ is, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Charlie swallows what’s in his mouth; the food, the nerves, all of it.

“Family, friends, criminal record.”

“My dad finances my education but we have a love-hate relationship. My mom,” —Dennis bites his lip— “out of the picture, doesn’t matter.” He’s unfolding his fingers with every item on his list. “I have a twin sister,” one that he loves dearly, but would never admit it to anyone, “and I have beaten people up before.”

“Last three digits of your credit card.”

“Nice try.”

“Phone number?”

“Not on the first date.”

Charlie is unamused, licking his fingers clean like a dog. “Do you have hobbies?”

Dennis taps his chin with a finger, humming.

“Hobbies, no. _Passions_ , lots.”

“Pretentious ass.”

Dennis scoffs. “Did you know that Ted Bundy used to work for a suicide hotline? Chew on _that_ for a while.”

_This_ is a clever trick Dennis keeps tucked up his sleeve: trivia, in particular, true crime and old horror trivia. Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, _Psycho_ , _The Shining_ —all so inhumane and grotesque and... _fascinating_ for the young man’s impressionable mind.

No one fancies talking about serial killers over breakfast, in the same way no one starts with the bad news; it’s a weird knack and people hate it.

It’s nothing more than another incentive that impels Dennis to learn more—to coop up in the public library, sifting through the magazines and rentable films until closing time; to return to his dorm and sit on the cold floor alone in his pajamas, by his desk lamp from Macy’s, underlining the most compelling ways the author phrases gutting and mauling, and dog-earing the investigation chapters.

His favorite ballpoint pen is running out from the lengthy annotations on the margin beside paragraphs where they describe the victim's body in gruesome detail, the gorey mutilation bits that make the pretty girls scream in films. He likes to entertain the idea that in another life, he may have been a forensic scientist, or a murderer himself—which really is laughable in retrospect, because you're only a murderer if you get caught, and Dennis Reynolds would never get caught doing such heinous things.

In all honesty, this hobby of his is self-indulgent in the absolute worst way, and his mother scoffs at him from beyond the grave every time his library card is charged with another documentary or biography.

Charlie huffs out a breath through a smile. "Psych major?"

Dennis shakes his head. "Biochem. I wanna be a _vet_."

"So you like animals?"

Dennis chuckles. "No. There's some that I can tolerate, sure..." He picks at the minced meat on the plate before squashing a piece under his index finger. "But I just want to keep their skins."

He meets Charlie's wide eyes, and it's a long few seconds before Dennis breaks into another laugh, a softer one.

"I'm joking, I'm joking! I'm just fucking with you."

"Okay," Charlie says, "you're like, totally weirding me out, dude. You have that segment memorized, or what?"

"I'm good at improv. Better than most. The best, actually."

Charlie hums. "You should think about doing theater, or like, those slam poetry nights at the humanities building."

"What if I told you I already do theater? Would that be wild, or what?"

Charlie stares at him. Assuming Dennis is a freshman (and he doesn’t look a day older than nineteen), and knowing that there’s only one freshman theater class—

"You can't be serious!" Charlie’s skin crinkles into smile lines before he throws his head back and a laugh rumbles from within his chest. "Holy shit, Dennis..." Charlie drags out the last syllable. He gapes at the ceiling as the name dies on his lips.

" _Reynolds_ ," Dennis finishes for him, "it's Dennis Reynolds."

"Dennis Reynolds." Charlie peers back at him. "You're a weirdo."

"Oh. This is just scratching the surface.”

**November 16th**

Charlie and Dennis _accidentally_ meet up the week after, and in what world would they _not_ jump to conclusions straight away: as illogical as it may appear, the other must be stalking them, surely—exact place, exact time, too on the nose to be coincidental. If real life was scripted, this would no doubt be a noticeable repetition in the grand scheme of things.

Charlie greets him a little too loud and high-pitched, but Dennis simply taps his nail on the counter to grab his attention.

“I found a dead dog on the side of the road on my way here. Pretty sick if you ask me,” Dennis says, pressing the ‘t’ in _pretty_ with his tongue. “You think someone’s gonna take care of it?”

“ _You’re_ pretty sick,” —Charlie does a double-take and shakes his head— “wait, no, just regular sick. You’re fucked up, dude.” He sits where he sat last time, facing Dennis. “Holy _crap_ , you’re fucked up. Stop talking to me about dead dogs.”

Dennis points at him. “You called me pretty. I like that.”

Somehow they find a common rhythm and fall into just another mundane conversation. Neither of them talk about why they’re skipping class again—they don’t have to.

**November 23rd**

Another week rolls by, and Charlie is half-expecting to find that jaunty freak sitting on the very stool he chose on the first day, grinning like the Cheshire cat because he brought something new to their private show and tell (like the dog story, or the David Bowie CD he promised to let Charlie borrow). Rain is pouring from the beclouded sky overhead, and Charlie’s sitting all alone in the kitchen, listening to the drumming on the windows.

About an hour passes. Dennis doesn't show up, and that alone sends Charlie’s thoughts racing. He spends the next hour arguing with his theater professor over the phone.

"I’m prohibited from giving out personal information, Mx Kelly."

"Yeah, dude, but this is like an emergency situation.”

"An emergency?"

Charlie groans. " _Yes_ , now tell me his address."

"I'm sorry—what kind of emergency?"

* * *

Fine, in retrospect, telling his professor that he has been diagnosed with cancer may not have been the smartest thing to do, but trudging up the stairwell to the Reynolds residence—which, it turns out, is a medium-sized apartment within walking distance from campus—Charlie considers it a win.

He rings the doorbell for a needlessly long time before the front door is slammed open, and he’s met with a skinny, straw blonde girl. Her narrowed eyes stare right through him.

_This isn't Dennis._

"Sorry! Sorry..." Charlie mumbles out.

"Do I know you?"

"I was just—wrong address!” Charlie laughs, nervous. "Sorry about that, I’ll just—"

The girl folds her arms over her chest, leaning against the doorframe.

"Are you looking for Dennis?"

"Yes!" Charlie blurts out. "I mean, Dennis, yeah. I'm a friend of his."

The girl sighs. "He’s doing a Turkish bath thing, all spa day and shit. He'll be out in fifteen if you wanna stick around." She gives Charlie a once over. "You should probably also get changed. Not that I care, don't get me wrong—I just don't want a pneumonia victim in my apartment."

Charlie tugs at his drenched olive jacket. “I didn’t bring a change of clothes.”

“Oh my _God_ , just come inside!"

Charlie yanks his shoes off without untying the laces. He then takes a look around the living room, rather bewildered by the garish rug that looks like it belongs in his grandma’s house, and all those unlit candles stacked on an accent table in the corner.

“Cool… cool place!” It’s really not. “I'm Charlie. I have theater with Dennis?”

"Wait, Charlie Kelly?"

Charlie frowns. "Uh, yeah. As far as I know."

She points at him with a manicured finger, jaw dropped. "You're the guy who did that piano number on the opening night!"

Charlie shrugs his jacket off, handing it to her. "Hah, yeah. That was… yeah."

"You were so good! I mean, shit, I loved your performance!"

Charlie tilts his head quizzically. “Really?”

"Yeah! Jeez, and here I was, thinking that Dennis only hung out with people like that shit for brains Ronnie.”

“Ronnie… you mean Mac?”

Dee rolls her eyes. “That annoying gay guy who goes to the same gym as me. I swear he doesn’t even work out half the time he’s there. I _hate_ him.”

“Mac! He’s my roommate, dude!”

“Oh God, how do you _live_ with that?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

She sneers at that. “I'm Dee, by the way."

Charlie seems stumped, scratching at his cheek.

“You’re Dennis’s…?”

“Sister.”

Charlie snorts. “I thought you were his girlfriend or somethin’.”

A sudden pallor is cast on Dee’s features. “No, no, no, stop speaking! Ew, _gross_. Why would you say something like that?"

"I don't know!"

“I’m gonna throw up.”

Charlie pulls his shirt over his head. “Uhm, please don’t?”

Dee wails at his naivety and stomps into the room on the right.

Charlie drops down onto the couch. His eyes dart over the room once more, and he spots a sketchbook peeking out from a canvas tote bag with some dumb slogan on it. _Mac would go crazy over this_ , he thinks. Upon closer inspection, the bag appears to say “GIRL POWER”, in a bold, red and pink font, the typography in the shape of a heart. _Nevermind_.

Charlie pulls the sketchbook out and tries to read what’s on the front cover, although the letters are smaller and harder to make out. The handwriting is neater than his or Mac’s, but it’s still a pain to decipher.

Dee reenters the room and tosses a shirt at him.

"Here,” she says. “Have some decency and put this on."

"Thanks. Is this yours?"

Charlie puts the shirt on. It sticks to his skin and messes his hair up even more.

"No, but Dennis won't notice it's gone."

"I meant the sketchbook."

"Oh, that. Yeah, you could say that I do a bit of fashion design.” She tries to appear nonchalant about it (but deep down she cares too much). “I minor in it."

Charlie begins flipping over pages worth of mood boards, fabric swatches, and double-page spreads of outfit collections with color-blocked backgrounds. The pages are stiff to the touch where the markers bleed through and some pages are taped in.

"Woah…”

An expectant look crosses Dee’s face. “What do you think?”

“I mean, sometimes I like to draw a little, too,” he admits, “but I'm nowhere near _this_ good, like, holy shit!" He points at a yellow dress. "I love this one! It’s very, uhm… yellow.”

"T-Thank you. That one was for an assignment."

Charlie turns the page. “Why are there boobs in here?”

“That’s an anatomy study.” Dee laughs softly, the sound bubbling out of her. "Dennis always tells me that I suck, but I know he couldn’t do better himself. Speaking of, how do you know him?"

"I don't know, frankly. We kind of just clicked. We got to talk one day and…” Charlie shrugs. “I don't know. He's cool. He's like the smartest person I know."

Dee's eyes widen and she _cackles_. "You're joking, right? Are you sure we're talking about the same Dennis? This guy is the farthest thing from cool. He's like, the textbook definition of a drama queen, and he has a soft spot for cats—but you didn't hear that from me."

Charlie nods and zips his thumb and index finger across his mouth. "Didn't hear a thing."

Dee takes the sketchbook from him and slides it back into the bag, with a smirk playing on her glossy lips.

"I think we're gonna get along just well."

The bathroom door swings open, and Dennis steps into the room, scrunching his damp hair with a T-shirt.

"Dee, I told you not to leave your magazines on the toilet—"

He lowers his voice to a full stop the moment his eyes land on Charlie. There is an uncertainty that veils his gaze in a dark, dull hue. He looks as though a particularly bated breath is jammed in his windpipe, but it's not so overt as to disturb the subtle shock in his expression. Dennis is breathing just fine, Charlie can hear it in the quietness—although, his brows do eventually twitch into their usual frown.

Then, a realization dawns on Charlie: this is Dennis without the charades and concealer. This is him at his most intimate, the slack side of him reserved for his sister and no one else. The usual sharpness of his face is gone, replaced by the faint steam cradling his cheeks. ( _Dennis takes hot baths in the middle of the day; noted._ ) The moisturizer dabbed into his skin gives it a soft sheen; it does crack on his forehead wrinkles, though (which have no business being this pronounced on a guy one foot in his early twenties).

Charlie had assumed he had an expensive perm based on how aversive he is to people touching his hair, but he's pleasantly surprised to see Dennis's natural curls stick to his nape. ( _Does his hair frizz up without products?_ ) The baby blue bathrobe he's wearing is loosely tied around his waist, the indiscreet neckline revealing the flushed skin over his chest.

_Maybe this is what the perverse male gaze is all about_ , Charlie reckons.

The water droplets keep trickling down Dennis's neck, they race to pool in his collarbones, and it makes Charlie's brain feel fuzzy like it's been plugged up with cotton. He hears a faint reply from Dee, but she sounds like she's a mile away.

Charlie keeps searching the lines of Dennis's face, his jaw, and his cheekbones, for an answer of his own.

Dennis beats him to it, always one step ahead. His lips briefly part around a soft sound.

"Hey, Charlie," he says, mouthing the words like he would normally, with their usual ring and tone (which is only half the truth, because Dennis can get quite moody, and refuse to entertain people with a greeting. Charlie wishes he could read him better, like those cheap mood rings sold at crystal fairs).

Charlie stares up at Dennis, mumbling a brief hello. Dennis's lips upturn into a coy half-smile, and Charlie finds himself mirroring it.

Dee glances between the two of them and smiles to herself as she gets up from the couch.

"I'll leave you two dickbags be. I have some things I need to take care of. Artemis and I are doing a group project with this other girl—"

Dennis scoffs. "Okay, bird."

"Bird, huh? You're so original with your insults it hurts." Dee steps closer and tousles his hair, tugging on a tuft as she pulls her hand back. "Eat shit, asshole."

Dennis swats her hand away with a firm push on her wrist. 

"Dee, you _bitch_ ," he says, so biting and dripping with gall that it makes Charlie sink deeper into the couch, away from Dennis. "Don't you dare touch my hair again, you hear me!" Dennis holds his breath for a moment, biting his lip. "You're just gonna ruin everything for me, like, come _on_. At least _one of us_ puts effort into his appearance." He sighs "Unbelievable, really. Charlie, are you seeing this shit? I live with an absolute _lunatic_."

Charlie simply gapes up at him. "I…"

"Great, so you agree! You hear that, Dee?"

Dee crosses her arms over her chest. "You're a whiny baby, Dennis. No one cares about your hair like _you_ care about your hair. Get it through your thick skull for once."

"My skull is the standard 0.6mm thickness, thank you very much."

"Why would you even—ugh! You know what, I don't care." Dee flips him off and storms into one of the rooms down the hall—possibly her bedroom—slamming the door shut.

Dennis runs a hand through his hair, fingers smoothly gliding between the conditioned strands. A frustrated groan leaves his mouth as he turns to face Charlie.

"Sorry you had to, uh, see that.”

Charlie shakes his head profusely. "No! No, I mean, it's cool, yeah. Siblings. I get it. I just didn't expect you to be _living_ with your sister, is all."

Dennis flumps himself down onto the sofa, beside Charlie. "She’s crazy, I’m telling you.” He huffs out a laugh. “Driving me nuts every single hour of the day."

Charlie just nods slowly, watching him speak. "Right."

"So, why did you decide to drop by?" Dennis flashes a cheeky grin at him. "Wait, don’t tell me, I know that look. You need _money_ ,” he concludes, half-jokingly.

"No!" Charlie shrieks, like a cat that got its tail stepped on. "God, _no_ , I don’t need your stupid money!"

Dennis clicks his tongue. “I was just _joking_ , anyway.”

He places his hand on Charlie's shoulder, his fingers softly curling over the cotton fabric. Charlie helplessly eases up under his hand, shoulders slumping.

"You know you can tell me anything, buddy."

Dennis has this intense, piercing stare when he concentrates, and Charlie feels it bruising his skin through the tension between them. He doesn’t mean to come off like that, with such potency—the intimacy just tends to get lost in translation from his brain to his eyes. Though, Dennis was never gentle to begin with.

"It’s not much," Charlie mutters out. "I was just worried. You didn't show up at our spot this week and I was like ‘shit, I should check up on him’, except you never gave me your number, you dick. I mean, what if you got into, like, an accident? That would kinda suck, right?"

Charlie notices that Dennis has leaned a little closer. His voice is toneless as he replies.

“That would suck, yeah. But I'm fine, see? Nothing to worry about."

“Yeah, so what were you doing today, then? Must’ve been some important shit.”

Dennis forces a laugh. "Hungover from partying all night. You know how it is.”

"I really don’t.”

Dennis half-smiles at Charlie, in a manner that reminds him of this strange, flat-lipped smirk that he had seen his family members put on for strangers.

“Right," Dennis says. "You don’t.”

Charlie starts picking at his nails. “You can talk to me, too, y'know. Like, I know you're just pulling this party thing out of your ass."

Dennis's smile falters. "What?"

Charlie averts his gaze to his hands. "You're just acting different, dude. I don't know how to explain it."

“...”

The couch creaks under Charlie as he shifts his weight.

"I'm just gonna—"

Dennis firmly clutches his wrist. He has had more fierce tipping points, sure, but never one where he fell on the other side this fast over a well-intentioned comment.

"Look, fine, _okay_! I-I take meds, I have a prescription, and I ran out, and I don't trust myself to be around," —he stammers, flailing his other hand— " _anyone_ , really."

"Oh," is all Charlie says.

“It’s like I’m a different person when I’m medicated, I…” Their eyes meet again, and Dennis loosens his vice-like grip, pulling his hand back. “My dad always says they should just put me in the ‘loony bin’ or something, and I'm starting to think he's got a point. I-I mean, I got so worked up just now," Dennis shakes his head, "this whole _conversation_ is just pathetic, no offense."

“None taken, but like, you sure you’re okay, dude?”

Dennis exhales a big breath. _It’s okay,_ he thinks _, just melt into it._

“I’m fine. I’m _fine_.”

There’s a silent moment between them.

"I uhm, I take meds, too. When I can remember." Charlie’s lips curve into a polite smile. “It’s not like, weird or anything. I mean, maybe we’re both a little weird, I don’t know. I kinda like being weird.”

Dennis finds himself slowly breaking into a smile of his own.

"Thanks,” he mutters in a sarcastic tone, voice kept low. “By the way, why did Dee give you my _Phish_ shirt, of all things? That shit's authentic."

Charlie points at the shirt he’s wearing. "You tellin' me that you would wear this garbage outside of your apartment?"

"No." Dennis chuckles. "No way. I don’t even listen to the band. I do sometimes sleep in that shirt, though, and let me tell you: It. Is. _Comfortable_."

Charlie grabs the collar of the shirt and pulls it up to his nose for a sniff. "Smells good, man. What's in your body wash? Actually, is it the detergent?"

“Did you just smell my shirt?”

“I did a little bit.”

Dennis looks at him, eyes matted with something simmering under the surface, something that should have slipped by unnoticed under normal circumstances. Charlie tries to put his finger on it, looks straight into his eyes. Dennis almost looks like he’s about to move, and maybe he does move, just enough to remain soft-spoken. Such a mild voice is bizarre when paired with someone so eruptive.

"It’s… it’s citrus,” he says. “The body wash, I mean. Dee and I use the same brand."

"Wild…"

"Yeah, I know."

The silence deepens in the moments that follow.

Dennis leans in and tilts his head, and it’s both too slow to be improvised and too sudden to be planned. He lowers his lids to mask the glance at Charlie’s parted lips, a question sitting on his tongue.

_Can I kiss you?_

No, Dennis would care more about his own reputation, even at his most vulnerable.

_Would it be weird for me to kiss you right now?_

The answer is the same either way.

Charlie’s voice is, but a gentle whisper. "You think this is a good idea?"

Their lips barely brush as Dennis tells him, "I've never had a bad idea in my life."

They fail to notice the door down the hall opening, too absorbed in each other. Dee’s shrill voice pierces the tender atmosphere like a rapier.

“Hey, Dennis—”

Dennis has never in his life pulled away from someone so curtly.

**December 1st**

"Pass me your joint, Den."

Dennis simply scoffs. "Roll one yourself, you lazy ass."

Mac hits him in the shoulder. He then takes a crumpled sheet of rolling paper out from their supply bag. He smooths down the magazine page laid on the coffee table and places the sheet on top. “If we had shared that,” he points at the joint hanging from Dennis’s lips, “we’d have more for later. I have a midterm coming up and I don’t know when I’ll be able to get more.”

“We could find a new dealer in the meantime. You just get all fussy about it.”

Mac lets out a scandalized gasp. “Because that’s like totally breaking some code in the official dealer codex! I object!” He pinches the paper and ends up spilling some of the flower in his lap. “Goddamnit.”

Charlie takes a long drag and the smoke trickles out from his mouth as he speaks. “You gotta grind it until it’s free of stems or it’s not gonna burn evenly, dude. It’s like when you make a pizza at home, the middle is gonna be all chewy if it’s too thick. Make it even—and crumbly like oregano. Do you think we could put weed on pizza next time?”

“We _could_ , but we shouldn’t. Probably.” Mac rubs his fingers up and down the joint. “Also, you’re telling me all that like I wasn’t your dealer in junior year. I _know_ how to roll a joint. My hands are just—they’re not being very cooperative today.”

“Ask Dennis to do it. He has good hands.”

“I’m _not_ rolling his joint for him,” Dennis reiterates. “He can do it himself.”

“Well, he clearly can’t from the looks of it.”

“Uh, hello?” asks Mac. “You guys are talking like I’m not even here.”

He licks the glued inseam and twists the joint and it's in his mouth before the others could comment on his clumsiness again. He leans back on the couch and as he shimmies into a comfortable position, his pinkie bumps against Charlie's hand.

Charlie’s senses are amplified. Calloused fingertips rake over the hills of his knuckles, and then Mac’s palm is covering the back of his hand. It's warm like the buzz in his head. The giddiest smile sits on his lips, engulfing his whole face. Mac’s temper dispersed with his first inhale as it usually does. His touch is nothing but kind and strong. Charlie could get used to this.

What he doesn’t account for is the suave attempt in which Dennis slides his palm against his, interlocking their fingers; thin and chubby, alternating. The hand in Charlie's right is cold and uncertain, but there's a vague familiarity between his fingertips. _These_ are the advances of someone that had looked shocked to be cared for. _This_ is the vulnerability of someone so closed off. Dennis's thumb traces gentle circles into his skin, and Charlie momentarily forgets about his deadlines and responsibilities.

Charlie squeezes both of their hands tight. _Holy shit_ , he thinks, _this is the best day ever_. His joint is burning to the bud in his mouth and he’s unable to take it out, but that’s besides the point. He’s going to enjoy this while it lasts.

**December 24th**

Dennis drives a standard Land-Rover with bad insulation and Charlie finds this out the hard way. It sputters against the melted, muddy snow and it smells like overused air freshener inside. Charlie pulls his scarf up over his stuffy nose and shoves his hands in the pockets of his coat. December is an awful month so far, like a rotten cherry on top of the year. (Aside from whatever happened on the first.)

“It’s gonna be fine. I know these guys from my film class.”

“Not gonna lie, they sound super weird, dude.”

Dennis tightens his grip on the steering wheel as he takes a right turn. He looks over at Charlie. “ _The McPoyles_ and _weird_ are practically synonyms. One of them tried to hook up with me once. I don’t remember which. It was weird.”

“Uh, can I ask a stupid question?”

“Tell me if you see a good parking spot first.”

Charlie wipes the fogged-up window with his palm and scans the area. “Nothing good so far. Unless you wanna park in the handicap spot on the right? I wouldn’t if I were you.”

Dennis clicks his tongue. “Ask away. I’ll keep looking.”

“Why are we going to the McPoyles’ party if you don’t even like them? Seems kinda contradictory.”

“I’m not the type to pass up on free booze. Plus, do you have anything better to do?”

Charlie’s brows etch into a frown. “Do you want an honest answer?”

“I’d prefer one.”

“...Then no.”

* * *

It’s almost painfully stereotypical how every other person is holding a red solo cup from which the drinks are waiting to be spilled. Charlie has lost Dennis to the busy crowd with promises of not getting too drunk and finding their way back to each other (or the car) before two in the morning. Amidst the wild drinking games, he can no longer find alcohol that hasn’t been spiked with milk. He sticks to the walls so as to not fall over the litter on the floor and the feet of people.

But this can’t go on forever now, can it?

He covers his cup with his hand and takes it with him when he leaves for the restroom. On the corner he headbutts a taller guy’s back from behind, who’s wearing a knitted holiday sweater adorned in tacky primary colors with the sleeves cut off. He turns around to face Charlie.

“Woah, sorry dude. Wait—Charlie?!”

Charlie rubs at his forehead as he tilts his head to look at Mac. “Dude. Don’t stand in the middle of the hallway. It’s douchey.”

“I was standing here first!”

“What sense does that make?”

Mac rolls his eyes. “I’m _stationing_ here. Laying low and waiting for guys to pick up on what I’m putting down.” He points a finger gun at the ceiling. “Bamm. Mistletoe, bitch.”

Charlie’s lips part around the beginnings of a sentence. He shakes the thought with a shake of his head. “Do you know where the bathroom is?”

Mac grabs him by the shoulders with a too-firm grip. “You are _not_ avoiding my holiday kissing booth. No way.”

“I need to _piss_ , Mac.”

Mac grins down at him and leans in. He closes the modest distance between them, pressing a chaste kiss square on Charlie's forehead. His lips are tender and warm from the alcohol.

"Go piss, bro."

Charlie is… perplexed. "Thanks?"

He ends up waiting in the bathroom line for an eternity and listening to this drunk girl in a bralette and a ripped fishnet top talk about the new year's sci-fi prophecy. He hates saying _no_ to pretty women, he really does, but he politely pushes past her at the first opportunity to do so.

The folk-punk is thumping. Charlie can't think straight but at least he can aim straight enough.

He dries his hands off on his jeans after washing them while letting the door swing shut behind him. The alternative girl is now sloppily making out with Tim Murphy, which makes him avert his eyes as he passes them in the hall. When he looks back up from his feet, his eyes land on Dennis chatting up _Liam McPoyle_ a little too close to the back wall. 

"Dennis?"

Dennis half turns around, calm as ever, with a subtle smile tugging on his lips. "Charlie, hey.”

Liam juts his chin out and puffs his chest out like apes in nature documentaries. "Hello, Charles."

Charlie visibly cringes at the name choice. "Don't call me that. No one calls me that."

Liam walks up to him and plainly eyes him up and down before leaving.

Charlie stands there and attempts to process whatever just happened. "What were you two… doing?"

Dennis sighs and brandishes a pack of cigarettes. “Something that Mac certainly doesn’t have to know about.” He bites down on his bottom lip. “Wanna have a smoke with me?”

Charlie doesn’t think twice about it. “Yeah. Sure. Get me out of here.”

Dennis’s laugh sounds so sweet and soft, like it always does in confidence. Tipsiness makes him unrestrained. He nods at the balcony door and they make their great escape from the party.

The December air is chilly as it hits Charlie in the face. He sits on the foldable chair perched on the left side and waits with utmost patience until Dennis hands him a cigarette. What he doesn’t expect is Dennis crouching before him and pushing the cigarette in his mouth so gingerly that he can barely feel his fingertips ghost over his chapped lips.

Dennis takes out a lighter and lights his own under the shield of his hand before leaning in and transferring the flame from his cigarette tip to Charlie’s. He sucks his cheeks in as he inhales and Charlie can’t take his eyes off him.

Dennis stands there against the railing. Charlie watches his hands as he lifts and lowers the cigarette at uneven intervals. Sometimes he leaves it in his mouth and rubs his hands together. Sometimes he watches Charlie with equal intrigue.

This goes on until they’ve had two more cigarettes and their cheeks are a cold-bitten red. The flush of color draws Charlie’s eyes down, a warm bloom compared to the regular paleness of Dennis's face. His eyes keep going down. Dennis’s lips are a welcoming shade of red, too.

"My eyes are up here, dude," Dennis teases, eyes lazily catching Charlie’s gaze, lips curving around his cigarette effortlessly as he speaks. Charlie gets the idea he’s done this plenty of times before. He wonders what else those lips could do.

Charlie finds out that Dennis kisses like he talks; he talks with extravagance and those lips always have a sly curve. He can’t recall how it started or where it’s ending. But it feels like closure. An episode following a cliffhanger.

Dennis is so cold yet so kind. Such pleasant sounds trapped between their mouths. The railing of the balcony is pressing into Charlie’s lower back and the cigarette dangles from between his fingers as Dennis insistently holds him close. Not with his hands, but with the promise on his lips.

It’s gonna be a long four years.

**Author's Note:**

>  **\+ author's notes**  
>  Hi thank you for reading!! Had to wait a bit after the pre-orders closed to post this, but it's finally here. Hope it was a fun read 💏 and happy Valentine's Day I suppose.
> 
> **\+ socials**  
> [charden](https://charden.tumblr.com/) dot tumblr dot com as always, come hang


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